


Do I Dare Disturb the Universe? (Some Other World)

by tiny_tuba



Category: Hannibal (TV), Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T. S. Eliot
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, Happy Murder Family, M/M, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Nobody is Dead, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Some Other World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:24:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiny_tuba/pseuds/tiny_tuba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What if no one died? What if What if we all left together? Like we were supposed to, after he served the lamb.”</p><p>A fluffy, Christmassy, Murder Family fix-it fic heavily inspired by T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufock"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do I Dare Disturb the Universe? (Some Other World)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dizzyfishy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dizzyfishy).



> Merry Christmas, Dizzyfishy! I hope you enjoy this fic as your gift for the Hannigram Holiday Exchange!

**Toronto, Canada. December.**

Will Graham feels forced to ask the overwhelming question.

“What is it?” The look on her face is inscrutable.

“Perfect! Oh, I think this tree is perfect!” Abigail exclaims, and Will shakes out the sixth Douglas Fir.

This week’s family outing is Christmas tree shopping, and Will is doing most of the work. He pockets his knife and tears away the rest of the string spiraling around the tree. Hannibal looks on, lips pursed but eyes merry. He looks vaguely ridiculous with his collar mounting firmly to the chin & his furry monstrosity of a hat perched on his head. He is glad that she likes the tree, as the sun has begun to set, the evening spread out against the sky.

Abigail is happy to be home with her fathers for Christmas break, and she claps her hands together in glee, muffled by her gloves.

She’s right, the tree _is_ perfect. Evenly spaced branches, vibrant green needles, and tall enough to command attention in the high ceilinged front room.

Abigail helps Will drag the tree to their car as Hannibal deals with purchasing it. When he returns, they have it tied securely to the roof. Will picks at the tree sap stuck to the gold band on his ring finger. He should’ve worn gloves.

Hannibal looks at the tree and smiles broadly.

“It _is_ a wonderful tree.” He agrees, inhaling deeply. His nostrils flare from time to time on the drive back home, enjoying the scent. He is nearly giddy.

At the house Abigail dutifully unpacks her backpack, pulling out a battered book of poems and her new laptop. The computer had been a present for getting accepted into her university’s teaching credential program.

“Working hard… or _hardly working_?” Will asks, lifting his head to point with his chin at the study supplies. Abigail pulls a face at the classic dad joke. It’s _almost_ as bad as the cannibal puns. Almost.

“Ha. I’m trying to decide what prompt to fill for my essay- the professor gave us three poems, and we have to analyze one.” Here, she flips through the book, eyeing the pages suspiciously. Still, she cannot seem to focus.

“It’s cold,” notes Abigail, more inconvenienced than annoyed. Her bare white arms bear the downy brown fluff of goosebumps.

Will presses a kiss to the top of her head as he passes by her, “Then put on a sweater.”

“Mh.” she grumbles noncommittally. She pipes up when Hannibal walks into the kitchen, “Can we have a snack?”

Will agrees, leaning over the counter. “Hannibal, are there any croissants leftover from brunch?”

Hannibal rummages around in the pantry and emerges triumphant, golden crescents in his hand. “Tea?” he asks as he begins to toast them.

“Yes please. _Actual_ tea, please.” At Abigail’s words, Hannibal chuckles.

Will breaks off a handful of fresh mint from the herbs growing in pots along the window sill, “What do you mean, ‘ _actual tea_ ’?”

“It was _once_ , it was… purely psychiatric.” Hannibal leaves it at that, and Abigail was delighted with teasing him. Will doesn’t fully understand, but laughs lightly nonetheless as he sets the kettle on the stovetop. He and Hannibal chat idly about nothing of true consequence as they wait for the kettle to whistle. As they get the tea tray ready, coming and going from one room to the next, they speak of Michelangelo.

Only a little while later, Hannibal delivers the tray with Abigail’s teacup, the marmalade, the tea, and croissant to her desk, holding up one finger and reciting:

 

“ _And time yet for a hundred indecisions,_

_And for a hundred visions and revisions,_

_Before the taking of a toast and tea_.”

 

Will chuckles at the pout on Hannibal’s face: he was slightly put out that she does not respond, as she is preoccupied with her essay. Her fingers stutter on the keys, murmuring, “ _That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all_.”

She looks up at Hannibal for help. Handing the tray to Will, he crouches by her desk, eyes skimming the essay prompts. He taps his finger against a page decisively.

“You’ve read a great deal of the works that T.S. Eliot drew from, Abigail. _Prufrock_ was heavily influenced by Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, specifically _Infierno_.”

Will groans.

“Ah, not again, Hannibal. We’ve heard your lecture on Dante too many times. There are other nights, there are other things.” Just because Hannibal could recite Dante Alighieri's sonnet, “ _La Vita Nuova_ ” in its entirety didn’t mean that he should.

“No, no. He’s got a point. That actually really helps, thank you.” Abigail brushes off Will’s bemused reply and distractedly kisses Hannibal’s cheek. She accepts the tray, and he positively beams as she goes back to her essay, trading the poetry book for a different one in her bag.

Will finishes the last sip of his tea before picking up the discarded book of poetry. He wanders back to the kitchen, and once he is alone, as if on cue, Hannibal is behind him, murmuring into Will’s ear:

“Eliot’s _Prufrock_ seemed to represent thwarted desires and modern disillusionment.”

It was not the strangest thing Hannibal had said before gently kissing Will’s neck.

“Are you feeling very thwarted, _Doctor Lecter_?” there is a smirk tugging at the corner of Will’s mouth, mirth bubbling and being stifled in an attempt to seem scholarly, stoic. He nudges himself out of Hannibal’s arms, and they both lean against the kitchen counter. Will quirks an exaggerated brow at Hannibal, still trying to seem serious.

In contrast, Hannibal smiles broadly, eyes downcast in a brief moment of honest-to-god happiness.

“No, not in the least. Nor do I feel disillusioned. We see each other as plainly as we can, make no qualms about that,” he glances out the door and down the hall at Abigail, who is scrolling through her phone. Her essay lay temporarily abandoned, the blank screen of her computer dimly blinking at her. She is laughing at something her friends must have told her. She is happy- they all are. Hannibal faces Will, gently grasping his hand in both of his own.

“Will, I love our world here in Canada. I wish I could thank you properly for it.”

Will brushes Hannibal’s knuckles against his lips, still smiling. Keeping his fingertips to Will’s face, Hannibal traces the outline of his lips in complete reverence. Will could point out that the house was Hannibal’s, purchased with Hannibal’s money. Even Abigail is here because of Hannibal. They are all here because Hannibal made a place for them.

But, he knows. Hannibal is fulfilled, grateful, indebted to Will for choosing him. That fateful dinner could have ended so much differently, and maybe it did- in some other world. But they all got their happy endings, and Hannibal’s heart is sated.

“Hannibal-” Will does not know how to tell him that he did not need to thank him. He knows why he chose to run away with Hannibal. There were very few words to explain it; he settles with giving Hannibal a kiss, instead. His hands are solidly affixed to Hannibal’s hipbones, as Hannibal’s fingers comb gently through his hair. The kisses are unhurried. Hannibal is tender, and Will is putting all of his love into each kiss.

Hannibal pulls away slowly, eyes still closed.

“I love you too, Will.”

Will ducks his head, the tips of his ears burning. He feels like a newlywed. Unable to watch the open emotions of Hannibal’s face, all the more easier to read with Will’s empathy, Will grasps the collection of poems. It is a buffer against his chest, a chance to breathe.

“Do you find the book to be more interesting than your husband?”

Will laughs quietly, amused.

“Perhaps. Tell me about this poem Abigail is analyzing. Who is this ‘love song’ for?”

“Who indeed? The audience is the key, who you are speaking to changes the flavor of the writing. It is hard to surmise what is intimate or merely internal.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Hannibal makes a sound that resembles a more dignified “tch”. Will smiles, and flips to the end.

On a whim he cannot explain, he reads the words aloud. Doing so fills him with an indescribable sense of déjà vu, unsure whose vague memories he is half-remembering.

“‘ _I have seen them riding seaward on the waves/Combing the white hair of the waves blown back/When the wind blows the water white and black./We have lingered in the chambers of the sea/By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and Brown-’_ ”

“‘ _Till human voices wake us, and we drown._ ’” Hannibal finishes, softly. Will can see tears pooling in his eyes.

It isn’t until his own vision swims that he realizes he was also crying. He’s not sure either of them knows why they are doing so. For a moment, he thinks briefly of a coastline he’s never seen, a drop off a cliff he’s never been to. He feels Hannibal’s confusion as his own.

Will lets Hannibal bring a hand up his face to wipe the tears away. There are other nights for other things, tonight is not a night for sadness. He shakes off this sorrow from some other world and gently kisses Hannibal, trying to steady his heart with each push and pull of their mouths. Soon, he can’t even remember the passage that caused the emotional turmoil. In these moments, his whole world is kissing Hannibal & Hannibal kissing him.

They break away again, panting slightly. Hannibal is grinning and Will can feel a smile tugging at his lips as well. Hannibal presses a kiss to Will’s forehead before leading him down the hall. It is late.

The only light in Abigail’s room is the dim blue-white from her laptop screen. Hannibal has a gleam in his eye as he nudges Will, who acquiesces the silent request.

“I do not have the motivation to finish my essay during vacation. I plan to take a short nap before writing more, but fall asleep- tired from the long day. It is nice to be in my own bed again. This is my design.” His voice cracks with humor as he explains what happens, a farce from the old days. He hasn’t said those last words in a while, but it always pleases Hannibal.

Hannibal smiles, like he always does when Will plays FBI Profiler. They move over to where Abigail sleeps. Hannibal drapes a blanket over her, as Will maneuvers a pillow under her head. Fleetingly, he compares her sleeping form to how he imagines she would look, had Garrett Jacob Hobbs had been able to kill her. Like a patient etherized upon a table.

So still, so pale.

“ _I am Lazarus, come from the dead/Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you_ _all_ ,”—Hannibal interrupts Will’s rather untasty thoughts with ones of his own.

“Long live Abigail Hobbs.” Again, Will feels tears in his eyes. He breathes deeply.

“Thank you for saving her, Hannibal.” He turns back to Abigail, to their daughter.

“A place was made for you, Abigail, in this world.” Will kisses her forehead gently, making it a promise.

“It was the only place I could make for you.” Hannibal waits a beat before amending his statement. “The only place I could make for us all.”

 _Where would we have gone? In some other world? In some other world._ The thought leaves Will a little breathless, images of the shuddering cliff face again trembling against his eyelids. _I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker…_

There will be time to murder and create, but now he has made a place for them. There is no death, no sorrow, tonight. There are other nights for other things. Tonight they are content being a family.

They leave Abigail to her slumber. As they lounge on the sofa in front of a crackling fire, Will feels his head loll about as he begins to speak, feeling as if he was dreaming. He thinks of his family, and all they’ve done together.

“And would it have been worth it, after all, would it have been worth while…After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets-”

“After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-?” Hannibal laughs gently.

“And this, and so much more-?” Will begins to laugh too, the last dredges of melancholy fading away.

“It is impossible to say just what I mean!” Hannibal shakes his head, too overcome with emotion to truly communicate it. Will hums happily and nuzzles closer. It has been a long day, and he is tired.

Hannibal begins to stand when Will reaches out and asks simply, “Stay.”

Hannibal having granted this wish, Will asks for another.

“Will you read to me?”

“After what you said earlier, I am assuming you would not care for Dante?”

“Dante is fine.” Will curls an arm around Hannibal, who is pleasantly warm. He feels him breathe, ready to speak.

_"Io mi senti' svegliar dentro a lo core_

_Un spirito amoroso che dormia:_

_E poi vidi venir da lungi Amore_

_Allegro sì, che appena il conoscia…_ ”

The last words are no more than a whisper, as Will has already fallen asleep. Hannibal dare not disturb him, his whole world, his universe, safe in his arms.

 And seeing that it was a soft December night, curled once about his husband, and fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> If any lines seem awkward, they are probably taken directly from "Prufrock", which can be read or listened to at this link: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/173476 
> 
> Lines were also directly taken from the script for "Primavera".


End file.
